


Learning to Make Fire

by Shiny_Red_Cape



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Red_Cape/pseuds/Shiny_Red_Cape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin proposes. Twoshot, rating will go up in chapter 2. Complete. Outlaw Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started out as a smutty, OQ wedding night scene, but then the little backstory scenes got out of hand and it became something else. I’ll do the wedding night for the next chapter I guess, it didn’t seem to fit here.
> 
> Title is taken from the Margret Atwood poem ‘Habitation’.

The first time the topic of marriage comes up, she says no so vehemently that he actually laughs. She calls him a simpleton, but he’s unoffended. He knows that Regina is at her most prickly when you’ve hit upon an emotion. Things don’t go any better the second time. Or the third. It doesn’t stop him from asking.

Sometimes it’s a game and he spins her down into a dramatic dip and pleads all mournful actor “No pity milady, for a poor and humble thief?”. She pushes him away, her most queenly, refusing to pay court to him.

Sometimes it’s playful, draped over his lap and half undressed. “You wouldn’t grant a simple birthday wish?” he whispers hotly against her throat, and she pulls away breathless. “I’ve another gift in mind” she promises, and leads him to the bedroom.

And sometimes, sometimes, it’s a quiet entreaty into her hair, somewhere between sleep and wake, and she hates these times the most because it’s not a game anymore. So she pretends to be asleep, and waits for the inevitable day when he’s going to tire of asking with a gnawing dread. One day they’re going to be awake and it’s not going to be a game, and he’s going to leave her.

But he doesn’t leave, and now her sheets smell like him and they’ve stuck stars to the ceiling of the room down the hall for Roland to watch as he drifts off.

It’s in the darkest parts of the night that she starts to tell him bit and pieces of her story, given courage by the inky black blocking him from view. Memories she doesn’t want to see the light of day making her voice hoarse and crack as she tries to explain to the man who married his first love that marriage isn’t about love at all. That it’s prisons that look like castles and loneliness. That it can bring out the worst in people. Sometimes he pulls her close and whispers comforts against her neck, hand smoothing over her hair, and sometimes words are clumsy, inadequate things, so he slips her underneath him and kisses her until she rises up, and the only sounds he can make is to softly intone her name _Regina, Regina, Regina_ as he slides in and in to her.

He still doesn’t leave.

It’s a year after that first proposal, nearly two years since she’d found him in the forest, that they walk Roland to his new school. A year of sleepy breakfasts and morning kisses, of movie nights and bedtime stories. Of catching him looking at her a moment before he sweeps her up and dances her around the living room with surprising finesse. Of catching her looking at him as if he’ll disappear at any second and holding her, warm and content, chin resting on her head. It takes her a while to recognise this terrifying wonder as happiness. A while longer to wake up expecting him to be there instead of bracing herself for him not to be. But slowly, artfully, they seep into her, wearing down the doubt like stones in the river.

Roland is all excitement, a quick hopping gait and big melting eyes made even bigger by his newly shorn big-boy haircut. Unable to let it go entirely she’d taken a curl from the cuttings, a keepsake to add to the growing collection of their family. She can hear the low rumble of Robin, telling him of all the adventures he’ll have in class and how they’ll be waiting right outside when he’s done. When the bell rings they watch him rush inside, and she threads her fingers through his. They stay until every child has disappeared, until he forces himself away and they walk in the sunshine while he collects himself.

They settle on a bench in the park, deserted at this time on a Thursday morning. She understands why his hand is gripping hers a little too tight, that juxtaposition of pride and loss as you watch your child walk into school for the first time. She leans her head on his shoulder; it feels nice to be his anchor for a change. “Our little man” he mutters, not quite to her, and _her heart_ ; this cup doth overflow. Our little man.

They sit for a while, peaceful and quiet. She takes a deep breath, and before she can talk herself out of it says “What if I were to be bold?”

He stirs and looks at her, the quip tucked in the upturned corner of his mouth silenced by whatever he sees. He shifts and moves himself to the grass in front of her, resting his arms on her knees to better study her face, waiting for her to continue. She coasts her fingers over his hair and trails down to the back of his neck.

"What if I were to be bold and audacious?" she asks, eyes resolute and bright as stars. "What if I were to say, I can have you, and Roland, and Henry and everything I want?" emotion is making her husky, but she carries on. "What if I take my happy ending, and refuse to be parted from it?"

His eyes skim over her face, alert and searching. Then he softens, hands going to her wrists to move them to her lap. He reaches in to his pocket and pulls out a faded velvet box.

"Such bravery would deserve a token, to mark the occasion"

She laughs, a huff of air around her filling eyes. “You have such a token ready sir?”

"For a long time now"

They look at each other for a second, the box unopened between them. His hand dwarfs her as he checks, “You’re sure?” quietly, as if not to spook her. She smiles wider than she intended, she can’t help it.

"Ask and find out" her smile is trembling now.

His eyes are light as he pulls himself up and on to one knee. He flips open the box to reveal not a traditional diamond, but the deep blue depths of a sapphire. A perfect match for her. Once again he asks, “Regina, my heart, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

And this time, _this time_ , she says yes.


	2. Wedding Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got the second chapter finished! I hope you enjoy, but please be aware that this chapter is rated M. Very Very M. Enjoy!

It was a beautiful ceremony. Or at least that's what they had told her, she'd have to admit that the details were somewhat hazy in the terror/amazement of she was getting married, they were getting married - MARRIED - and as much as the excitement and nerves catch in her stomach there's no dread in it. Later she'd get crystalline details of the feel of Roland’s hair as she ruffled it in her fingers, edges beginning to curl again as it grows; The scent of teenage boy deodorant as Henry walks her towards Robin, quietly counting their steps under his breath. She hadn't considered a big wedding, hadn't planned on it, but she was always underestimating how far she'd progressed with the townsfolk. Forgiveness had always come hard for her, so she never really expected it from others. When the car deviated from its route to the small ceremony she'd been heading to at city hall, she noticed Henry's complete lack of surprise and it makes her think. She'd been assuming the quickly hushed conversations and furtive glances as she entered the diner had been a flair-up of old malcontent, but what if...?

She's been suddenly glad of her decision to have a wedding dress be the one tradition she kept.

Snow had tried to convince her to wear white (Well. She would.), showing her rails of frothy confections in tulle and ribbon. Regina had balked at them, ill at ease with the dazzling white, with the relentless purity it represented. Snow had taken her by the hand with all the peace of eternal optimism, and had said with such sincerity "Love makes all of us new again". She'd bit back her retort and tried instead to make her understand.

"A year ago I'd have laughed at you for that," she'd said, thumb rubbing lightly over the jewel on her finger, "but now I don't entirely disagree". She caught the overly enthusiastic hand that had taken that as consent and was reaching for a monstrosity of skirt. "The thing is.."

A pause. A fragile articulation. "Robin doesn't want me to be new. He wants... me to be me" _To be happy being me_ "My past is part of me"

Snow's eyes had over-flown on her behalf and she'd turned away to give both of them a chance to recover themselves. She might have said more, but there, squeezed between the more overblown charms of its neighbours, was her dress. It should have been boring, but its simple shape was overlaid with an ornate leaf brocade, as if someone has woven the forest floor and dusted it with moonlight. More to her taste with a warm silver hue, it just brushed the floor rather than threatening to drown the wearer in fabric. She'd freed it from the rail and Snow's hand had dropped away from the rack she'd started.

When they'd parked at the edge of the woods, the Charmings had been waiting to guide them. The short walk to the glade had been meticulously cleared, but she'd only appreciate the rustic beauty of ivy and the twisted gathered twigs arching over aisle when she looked back over the pictures, because there was Robin and anything else dropped away to a distance second. At some point in the next half an hour she obviously says 'I do' because he leans forward and kisses her, and people appeared to be clapping. She doesn't remember the food after, but knows that the cloth of the top table hid the fact that he hadn't let go of her hand since he added his ring to it.

And here they are, a not too long drive north over the border of Canada. It had always surprised her how readily he'd adapted to certain aspects of modern life. The determination to learn to use the tools at hand had kept him alive in their old world, and had served him equally well in the new. The car he'd spent a year learning to drive had brought them to a house, comfortable and modern within, but isolated, surrounded by the nature that was so much a part of him.

She looks at him and the heart they'd put back together beats hard and loud in her chest. His posture is deceptively relaxed; sat casually on the edge of their balcony, his long fingers toying with the closure on his light grey suit jacket. It was more refined than his usual outdoor garb, but he wears it well. The shadow at his jaw line had been tamed, neatened to a line of growth that traces down his face to his chin, and his hair is carefully combed. The effect was a more austere, classical handsomeness that his everyday attractiveness. It reminds her that once he had been noble in more than bearing, this son of Locksley.

But it isn't his clothes, or his careful grooming that has her pinned here, heart pounding in her ears. The perpetual half smile he wears is gone now, his face serious and focused. It's his eyes, she decides, the frank, unflinching intimacy of his gaze. It's not a Robin she's seen before. Not the earnest man beseeching her, nor the bristling protector, the mischievous tease or the indulgent father. He's not the tender suitor, cupping her cheeks as if he can hold together the pieces of her by touch. He's not even the man that smiled at her hours ago, fierce and joyful as he said his vows. He's something more, her husband.

His buttons lose the battle as he stands, swinging open to show the crisp white shirt underneath, bright against the light tan of his skin. When he reaches her she expects a kiss, but instead of closing that last crucial distance he stops. Lips not quite grazing, he stands as if he's got all the time in world, as if his proximity hasn't caught her in place, and the move hasn't suddenly narrowed her entire attention to the mouth now just a whisper away from her own. He holds them for a long, charged moment before lightly feathering down her jaw to place a deliberate warm kiss in the vulnerable hollow beneath her ear. Her whole body shivers at the contact, instinctively turning in towards him. He nuzzles back up but she tilts her chin out of reach before their mouths can meet.

"Give me a minute" she whispers. His glance is heated, but he steps back. For a second he just stands there studying her, the tip of his tongue brushing his bottom lip in contemplation, before quietly padding through the glass doors to the bedroom. She wilts slightly, eyes closing for an instant to regain her equilibrium. For a moment he'd been considering backing her up against the door frame and kissing her, and even though she was the one who had stopped him she can't help the tiny curl of disappointment. She shakes herself out of it and doesn't look at him as she walks into the connecting bathroom. Once inside she locks the door and splashes some cold water on her face, the droplets making her wedding band sparkle. She takes a few minutes to freshen up and then reaches to the side of her dress, working down the slim, hidden zipper. It had been the right choice, if Robin's struck expression was anything to go on, especially now that she could get out of it without needing a team of assistants. Stepping out of the dress she considers herself in the mirror; her perchance for dramatic underthings - while still delighting both of them - had felt wrong for today. She didn't need to feel like she was armoured from the skin out. Instead she wore a soft camisole, baring a tiny strip midriff before hitting a neat, unembellished pair of french knickers. She considers the short, silky robe hanging on the back of the door for a moment, debating, then slips it on and ties it.

When she opens the door back to the bedroom, she discovers she's not the only one to have made herself more comfortable. He's barefoot now, top buttons loosened, jacket and bowtie discarded carelessly on the chair. Hearing the door he turns from where he'd been lounging on the bed, shifting himself so that he's facing her, head propped up by his hand. The removal of the most formal of his clothes has done nothing to dim the hot spark in his gaze. He says nothing as his eyes take a leisurely sweep of her body, but holds out his hand to beckon her forward. When she reaches him he pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed in front of her, legs open so he can pull her closer. He bends her down for a kiss, the distraction of his skilful mouth allowing him to make quick work of her belt, a gentle glide of his hands over her shoulders leaving the silk in a pool at her feet. She breaks the kiss and peers from beneath her lowered eyelids in mock reproof, then drags a hand slowly down the centre of his chest to pop free his remaining buttons. "Fair's fair" she tells him huskily. He stands up and sheds the shirt, the slides his arms around her to kiss her again, pressing her firmly against his now bare chest. She melts into him, tongues tangling gently with each other's. The flat of his palms on her back feel hot through the thin material, and a few minutes later they start to rove, bunching the fabric up and higher, until he's forced to release her mouth to be able to bring it up over her head and toss it away. Her breasts swing free, pebbling in contact with the air. He slides his arms back around her waist and picks her up to meet her mouth again, turning them as he does so he can place her on the bed. He can't resist touching her, playing with the hardened tips he's just revealed, but when she arches her back up and makes a low stilted noise in the base of her throat, he makes himself let go. He wonders if she knows what a tempting picture she makes laying there, her hair slightly mussed, lips damp and swollen from him, and nipples reddened from contact with his calloused fingertips. Her breath is trembling a little through her ripe body, naked, save the thin material at her hips. He unbuttons his fly and pushes down, his pants and underwear joining the growing collection on the floor. Stripped, he joins her on the bed.

He doesn’t return to her body straight away, absorbed instead in her face. With a finger he lightly traces the winged tip of her eyebrow, the curve of her cheek, the dipped seam of her lip. When he does revisit the rest of her it’s to rain tiny kisses over her throat, feeling her breath catch as he finds the most sensitive places. There’s a purposeful slowing as he moves down the line of her body, the stubble at his chin dragging deliberately in juxtaposition with soothing stroke of his tongue. He lingers in the valley of her breasts, hands splaying over her ribcage, but doesn’t slide them up to tease the heavy orbs. He hears her gasp of frustration and continues on his journey, finding the yielding suppleness of her stomach. His hands follow to the delicate bend of her waist, thumbs coming to rest on the waistband of her increasingly burdensome lingerie. His palms round her body to slip inside the back, moulding the curve of her ass before arching her hips up to whisk the cloth down and away, leaving her gloriously naked to view.

He parts her legs and runs a light finger down her centre, smug at the wetness he feels there, and she hitches up against him; though he’s yet to open her she’s aching for his touch. It’s tempting, he thinks, he knows her body as well as any forest, has spent the last two years mapping the rise and fall of her. He’s memorised every sigh and breathy moan, and knows exactly the route to take with his tongue to have her seeing stars. But he’s determined that tonight of all nights, when she goes she goes with him inside her. A kiss on the inside of her thigh and he’s unexpectedly back with her, face to face his body is a delicious weight on hers, the hardness of his arousal notching exactly where she wants it. The strangled sound that escapes her as he rolls his hips has him smiling again.

“You seem tense” his innocent concern refuses to be dislodged by the warning shove she gives to his shoulders

“I wonder why that could be!”

“A massage perhaps? They can be very relaxing”

Enough of this, she needs him now. Her desperation gives her surprising strength as she reverses their positions, pushing herself up to rock against him.

“Take me!” A royal command.

She seats herself with a tremor on the thick, erect flesh between her legs. Damn! How fast these tables turn, she’s hot and wet and the way she’s moving, a deep, slick ride to appease the fire he’s stoked in her, makes him want to beg for mercy. He won’t, he swears he won’t. She’s beginning to shake already, whimpers and half cries tumbling from her with every slide of him. He’s not going to be able to hold this. He sits up fast, the movement causing a shriek from her as she locks her legs around him. He can feel the bloom of perspiration down his back as he fights his own instinct to give into the sensation and rut against her mindlessly. Fisting his hand into her dark hair he draws her head back, still thrusting up, curving her back up to present her breasts to him once more. This time he doesn’t tease, he wants to see her come apart _now_ , and takes a long, firm draw on the hard nub.

The press of his teeth at the end, in this moment so close to climax, makes her throw her head back and groan as the wave hits her. His eyes are greedy as he guides her through her peak, logging every quake and noise. His mind is dark as she starts to come down, need need need pressing him.

He's still hard, she realises as she begins to calm. “Y-you didn’t...” He swings her back down to the mattress, still lodged deep in her the force brings another little tremor.

"You can't know how much I love watching you in these moments, the seconds before you fall. I want to pleasure you, to hear scream, whimper, moan. To hear you crying my name as you lose control". His fingers work between them to find that hard jewel of sensation. Even as she protests “I don’t think I can – _Ah!_ ” she’s twisting underneath him, needing _more_ , and _harder_ , but he holds his pace, the burnished crests of his cheeks showing he's not unaffected by what he's saying. "But it's right now" a deeper push and God, that feeling's building again "when you're starting to climb" he's moving faster, starting to lose that meticulous control as his fingers work over her clit with devastating intent. "When you're almost - God! - there and all you care about in the world is me moving in you " his words are scalding against her neck as he falls forward. They're both forcing themselves up towards each other now, legs hooked tight around him as he thrusts messily into her, almost lost.

"Please Robin - please!" and he lifts his head, so close, so close.

"Don't beg love. Never that" he makes a quick, shocking change of position, pulling one of her legs up to brace against his shoulder, "I'll give you everything." Her body locks, and then begins to shudder as the new angle gives her that final drive over the edge. They cry out together, and she can feel the warm, wet proof of his satisfaction as she takes long, voluptuous pulls of his flesh in hers.

The next morning she’s woken by light beginning to filter into the room, and... something else? His fingertips, gently tracing her arm up and down. The details from the end of the night are foggy, a memory floats up from her mind of being spooned gently against his chest warms her more that the thick blankets surrounding them. He can sense her waking, and cups her hand to bring it to his mouth, brushing a kiss to the back.

"Good morning Mrs Locksley" he sighs, voice still heavy with sleep. Eyes still closed, the corners of her mouth tilt up a fraction.

"Good morning Mr. Mills" she replies.


End file.
